


Nocturne in Blue and Gold

by orchid314



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: A Journey Abroad, Established Relationship, M/M, Retirement, Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 05:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14610054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchid314/pseuds/orchid314
Summary: John Watson reflects on life during a journey to Venice with Sherlock Holmes.





	Nocturne in Blue and Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ноктюрн в синем и золотом](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14767013) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



"Holmes."

Pinpoints of yellow twinkled in and out, first appearing, then glancing out of sight as their ferry moved over the gentle swells of the lagoon, with twilight approaching. 

"Holmes?" he almost-whispered.

"Yes?" Holmes replied, as if shaking off a layer of dust.

The blue of the city descended around them and the gathering night. The other passengers–just a few on board at this hour–also felt its quiet embrace. Watson could smell the dank marine scent of it.

"What are you thinking about?" He knew Holmes was considering what he saw in his mind's eye before he answered.

"I'm tracing the routes that the bees will have taken to the hawthorn grove at home this evening."

Ah. Yes. Yes, of course.

"Are you warm enough? Shall I fetch you another blanket?"

Holmes looked down at his lap in surprise at the plaid covering that lay there. And then at Watson in the same surprise. Watson smiled to himself. Ah, Holmes, he thought.

Watson observed that profile–of the same grey as the stones and air of Venice at this hour. Holmes had fallen dreadfully ill. No one, not even he, had recognised the severity of his friend's exhaustion until it was completely upon him. Watson had blamed himself with great bitterness for the unforgivable oversight. It had deteriorated so quickly, from the usual malaise that Holmes manifested after a case to an entirely frightening and depleted state.

Watson could gaze upon that face for hours and never tire of it. But, aware of others seated on the deck, he soon looked down. Holmes's hands were fine and long, battered with nicks and small scars, the accumulation of a career spent in being curious. His nails were neatly trimmed, Watson having attended to them, and the veins on the backs of his hands stood out in relief, like little encased runnels. Watson permitted himself the luxury of tracing these with his mind, feeling their curved surfaces within himself as he did so.

Next came a surge of gratitude that the blood inside those veins–which showed blue through the skin like a darker Venetian blue–still coursed through them. And he sent up a fervent hope, coward that he was, that he would never draw breath in a world in which that pulse no longer beat.

Little laughs–affectionate and casual–came from the passengers behind them, a man and woman in their middle age, absorbed in their outing, perhaps light-headed from too much wine that afternoon.

Watson had been proud of Holmes on this journey. He had let himself truly rest–to the extent that such a thing was possible for Sherlock Holmes. But yes, he had rested.

One day towards the beginning of their visit, after Comandante Ballarin had paid them a call to express his most profound respects and offer any service that the city could extend, Holmes had stepped quietly onto the balcony of their rooms, as if shedding one of his dressing gowns. When Watson came outside a short while later to see if he wanted a glass of water, he found Holmes lying on a chaise, eyes closed, his face turned up towards the beaten gold of the sun.

It put him in mind of the afternoon they had stolen those many years ago, after they had finished the Smith-Mortimer case. They could hardly bear to wrap up the reports that the local constable had demanded of them and sign the dreary forms, before they were off, walking out of the town down a country lane to a pond that Holmes had spied earlier in their investigation. They had hastened there, lengthening their strides, laughing as they vied to outpace each other, until at the end they were running along the dusty track. They threw themselves onto the grass when they arrived at their destination, stripped themselves of their hats and coats, their neckties and collars and cuffs, and stretched themselves out, trying to catch their breath. Holmes had flung an arm across Watson's middle, his palm upturned, and Watson had let it rest there, overjoyed to see Holmes so carefree. 

At first they had talked, talked, talked, as they had always done since almost the very beginning of their friendship. Until the afternoon had slowed and they had found themselves embracing, seeking the other's kisses, their bodies joined from shoulder to toe. Holmes had raised himself on his elbow, looking down at Watson, dipping down for little nips at his face. Past forty, and behaving like boys! Such a thing would have been inconceivable to Watson during the terrible year after Mary had died and Holmes was a memory that continued to ache whenever the weather changed, like his shoulder.

Back on the Venetian balcony, Watson felt Time passing and watched how it hurried, eager to meet its appointments, casting aside those on whom it had once lavished such extravagant attention. He had made it a practice never to touch Holmes beyond the general manner of friends when in public places or where he otherwise might be seen but, with Time itself so heedless, he decided he would allow himself this consolation. Terracottas and carmines moved in his peripheral vision. Before him was that magnificent visage, its nose sharpened by age, but so singular, so full of the accumulation of experience, somehow, still, despite every adventure together, never fully understood by him. He reached out his hand and rested the lightest touch of the pads of his fingers against Holmes's cheek, letting them remain there, needing nothing. The only sign Watson noticed was a shallow lift and exhalation of Holmes's chest. No other response. But Watson felt the acknowledgment of the great man. He wanted to believe that he felt it.

Watson gently removed his hand and nodded a little nod to himself. Then he turned, leaving Holmes to the air and heat and entered the cool echoing darkness of the palazzo's sitting room.

A chill rose up to the boat from the dark waters before them and the dusk had condensed until it had almost acquired a texture of its own. Everything seemed very far away, except for the prickly warmth of the woolen lap robe. With a sense that it was all too fleeting, Watson folded his knotty hand over the long one closest to him and pressed it, now touching the veins there in earnest. At first he was not sure if Holmes–dreaming of his bees–had marked the gesture. And that was a fine thing in itself. Dreaming of bees, and not needing to mark a gesture, were very fine things.

It was enough.

There was a shift at his side, a closer approximation.

"Thank you," Holmes said, his rich-timbred voice torn at the edges. "Thank you." 

Yes, of course, Watson thought. Always and forever. Always. 

A small lantern in the corner cast its muted light against the shifting blues and greys and greens of the hour. Watson looked at their hands, together, at rest on the blanket. Their pulses, layered one atop the other, beat in rhythm to the rise and fall of the water beneath them. Their pulses beat in rhythm to the life they shared between them, sure and true.

**Author's Note:**

> I had two Whistler paintings particularly in mind when I wrote this: _[Nocturne in Blue and Silver: The Lagoon, Venice](https://www.mfa.org/collections/object/nocturne-in-blue-and-silver-the-lagoon-venice-32837)_ at the MFA Boston and _[Nocturne: Blue and Silver–Cremorne Lights](http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/whistler-nocturne-blue-and-silver-cremorne-lights-n03420)_ at the Tate in London.
> 
>  


End file.
